Poetry

After Jim Morrison Children are born navigators.The have crossed torrid wetlands,Slept in tombs full of water,Made love with the darkBefore they open eyes and seeThe…

I. Myth In the beginning was the seaand there was nothing to contain it. How the spirit soars with each crestslough crest and cowers with…

I wake up from my seat to a suddenblue blasting from the window.The sky looks certain as azure,if not for its scant escort of cloudsand…

Around two or three silverfishes dart among the pulverized lizard eggshells at the bottom of the box. Gliding into corners, hiding from view. I pull…

The boy tells you what white is in his native tongue—puti, like sand, like your skin, like the cobblestoned boulevards you have back home. You…